Pennyroyal
by Spinedle
Summary: Scarecrow, an old "friend" and a web. Of sorts. ONESHOT.


GRAVE, n. A place in which the dead are laid to await the coming of the medical student.

* * *

><p>He works gingerly, delicately. Twisting and tying knots with nimble fingers. His web is spun between wall and air, his spider poised perfectly in the centre like a bizarre Christ on the cross.<p>

He steps back and pulls Scarecrow's face into a smile. "Baa baa black sheep have you any wool? Yes sir yes sir three bags full."

He stares into Scarecrow's eyes. "One for my master…"

"So, Colin…How are you this lovely evening?"

The man can't respond, of course. He's blindfolded and gagged, his torso and limbs neatly tied to a wooden high-backed chair with yards of heavy duty rope.

Even if he wasn't, he doubted that the good doctor would. His fury and fear wafted off of him like sickness of a rabid dog. He was, for the first time in his life, stuck without a way out. No apologies, no money, no special favours from his new trophy wife would convince him to give him mercy.

And this is exactly as it should be, and everything he got would have come to him anyway. In little does or what he was giving him in one dose, his medicine would have been administered eventually.

Perhaps, in his small, piggy eyes behind the blindfold resignation would shine instead of the usual sparkling superiority and greed.

Crane doubted it.

The room they were in was large and dirty; an abandoned warehouse filled with crates, dust, cobwebs and rat piss. The wind and sea sounded softly outside, muffled by the concrete walls. He was freezing in his burlap. Perhaps when he got home he would put the kettle on and read the novel that had been on his side table for too long. A novel he had been meaning to read since his teenage years and finally got around to on a whim.

He switched his attention back to his captive. First, he needed to get the present work finished.

He smiled behind his sack mask and glanced behind him to make sure the lights hadn't dimmed in the slightest before addressing the scum.

"Your wife is so lovely, Colin. She's missed you since you've been gone."

Noticeable stiffening of the shoulders.

She hasn't lost her charm in the last few months since I've seen her…in fact: she seems to be getting more beautiful by the day."

He raises his arm and places his gloved fingers on Mrs. Crowley's shoulder slightly.

The man is making sounds around his gag, a ball of rags. Crane leans over and pulls the sopping wet cloth out of Dr. Crowley's mouth.

He coughs hard.

"My wife is dead. Don't lie to me you disgusting-

He hacks again as his words trip over a crack in his dry throat.

"Dead doesn't make much of a difference when it comes to…physical characteristics, Colin. Well, til after a certain point. The mouse went down, hickory dickory dock, you know." He smiled icily.

He had liked Mrs. Crowley.

A blond, slightly graying woman with a rare smile and crooked, yellowing teeth she covered up with a hand when she did. She was quiet, but intelligent and well spoken.

Shame the lust and greed of her husband made him turn a blind eye to her loveliness, but then again Crane found that her husband hadn't an eye for the exquisite.

Hmmm. Ideas.

He laughs.

"Now then…" Crane moved behind his guest's chair.

"You know what you did. And what you deserve…and you shall receive it. "

(And the dish ran away with the spoon)

"You're fucking sick."

"Again with the insults, Colin. That's what got you here in the first place, isn't it?" He laughs again. Like someone told an old joke he thought was quite boring now. "Your fault."

He unties the thick blindfold around Dr. Crowley's eyes.

* * *

><p>It's a dark morning.<p>

Professor Crane is at his desk, reading. The book is thick and leather bound; unfortunately it wasn't his, it was on loan from the Gotham library. His desk lamp is on, a substitute for the hidden sun.

There is a knock on the door, light and girlish. He set down his Brother's Grimm collection and barked

"Enter!"

Another annoying staff member or perhaps an admin. He's not interested.

The door creaks open, and a woman he knows struts in. Her blond straight hair, streaked with blue, and her black tights and green eye make up strikes his memory like a hammer, but for the life of him he can't remember her name.

"Professor Crane,"

He looks up. Who is she…?

"Yes?" He asked irritably.

"I'm failing your class." She said. Her green eyes are searching for his, but he's staring at his book and wishing for it.

"Hmmm. " He wasn't surprised, just by her attire.

"Is there…anything I can do to fix that?"

"At this stage…not much. Just study hard for your final exams next week." He waved a hand at her dismissively.

"Nothing?" She laced her hands together in front of her stomach, making her chest pop out of her low neck t-shirt.

What a whore. He muses. I wonder why she cares about her grades now? He remembers this girl now. She sat in the back, often complained about how useless the class was.

His interest dropped to zero.

"Please…Col-Dr. Crowley told me to ask, beg if I have to…"

"Goodbye."

Her face is turning red. She begins playing with her bra strap and getting closer.

"Proffes-

"Get out. I have a book to read, and students who actually desire to learn coming in for a lecture in 10 minutes. "

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes filled with rage and frustration.

Her footsteps and the slamming of his office door don't distract him from his reading.

* * *

><p>Crowley always had bad taste. Poisoning his wife for that skank was one of the worst decisions of his life.<p>

Scarecrow snapped back to the present. His art was on the wall, as it were.

Crowley stared, gape mouthed like a fish, at the mirror in front of his eyes. Seeing himself sitting in the simple high backed chair, in a black dress and veil. He probably had been wondering why the dirt covered clothes had been irritating his skin, and what was covering his face. There were probably a few bugs clinging to them as well-speak of the devil, something crawled on Crowley's arm then, black and spindly.

The professor's eyes were a harsh yellow, his skin pale and sickly. His wife looked better, Crane noted. Her skin was gray and lush, her face made up in her deathmask. Her arms and legs, spread indecently, were dark and the flesh was starting to rot…her mouth was stitched closed and her eyes were wide.

Fluids were slipping down the mirror's surface.

Smiling like a father of a bouncing newborn, he pulled something out of his pocket and stabs it sharply into Crowley's neck, right into the pathway to the heart.

* * *

><p>She smiles sweetly, her thin and pale hands holding the kettle just so.<p>

"Good morning Colin." She smiles and kisses his nose, like she used to. "Sleep well?"

He blinks at her and smiles back. "I did, Ash." She turns her back to him as she pours a cup of steaming hot tea for him, and he blinks again. "You?"

"I haven't slept in a while." She says softly. She places the teacup in front of him on its saucer.

He realises that he can't move his arms.

"Let me help you." She says sweetly. She picks up the cup and he looks down at it; it's full of bugs and a brown, vile liquid that smells like feces.

His eyes jump and his starts gasping, the hot fumes raping his nostrils with the scent of shit. Some of the bugs flutter from the teacup onto his face and he starts screaming.

"it's fine, baby." She croons. "see?" she raises the cup to her lips, smearing shit onto her lips and bugs crawl up her face into her rotting and empty eye sockets.

"See?" she smiles and chews on a rogue cricket with her yellow teeth.

He screams again, his throat cracking and closing up. He gasps for air and almost faints when the filth that is the bug covered, smoldering kitchen is pulled into his lungs.

She presses the cup to his lips and his body is on fire.

* * *

><p>Scarecrow dug his fingers into Crowley's cheeks. "So lovely. Absolutely nothing could spoil it."<p>

He pushed his gasmask up over his mouth, grinning sharply. He skittered his fingers along Crowley's arm, ignoring his panting and shaking and shrieking.

Scarecrow shook his head and almost skips out the warehouse door, whistling.

Almost as an afterthought, he took something else from his pocket and a small bic lighter. He opened the door a tiny bit, lit the something and tossed it, quickly slamming the door behind it.

He didn't look at the flames as he loped away across the docks. He is done here.

* * *

><p>AN: I'm not sure if I like this but here you go. Finished because reading a fic I loved in 08' (go check out Lati on here) kicked me in the ass and reminded me of it.


End file.
